


more to love

by Heyriel



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Body Worship, Chubby Geralt, Chubby Witchers, Coming Untouched, Established Relationship, Frottage, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Open Relationships, Self-Indulgent, Size Kink, Weight Gain, Witchersexual Jaskier, established geralt/jaskier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:41:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23949313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heyriel/pseuds/Heyriel
Summary: Life at Kaer Morhen brings some changes to the Witchers' bodies; Jaskier isextremelyappreciative.
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Lambert/Vesemir, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Lambert
Comments: 43
Kudos: 885





	more to love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Buckysthighs134](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buckysthighs134/gifts).



> Triggered by buckybabyboyzzz and fueled by dinahdarling (among many others), there's been a lot of great chubby!Witchers meta going around on Tumblr and _I love it_.
> 
> Give me thicc Witchers [built like the Mountain](https://cdn.images.express.co.uk/img/dynamic/20/590x/GOT-679040.jpg) or give me death,,,,,

Jaskier has barely settled into the blissfully hot water of Kaer Morhen’s mineral springs when the door to the large cavern bursts open to admit three sweaty Witchers returning from a good day’s work.

They don’t seem to notice the bathing bard at first, hastily tugging off their clothes and dropping them carelessly to the floor. It’s been terrible outside; stormy and dark with freezing rain and Eskel nearly falls over in his hurry to get rid of his soaked, mud-splattered boots.  _ Naturally,  _ Jaskier averts his eyes to give the men some privacy -or, hm, he makes a fair attempt of it.

For you see, Jaskier has spent the last few weeks in an acute state of deprivation.

Weeks he’s been surrounded by burly handsome men that lift man-sized tree trunks without breaking a sweat. Men that tussle like pups in the courtyard, casually showing off their fearsome strength and speed. Men that insist on being all gruff and mysterious yet become endearingly flustered when Jaskier returns their shyly interested gaze.

It’s maddening.  _ Exciting _ . Yet Jaskier hasn’t been able to explore the bubbling attraction between himself and Geralt’s brothers, hasn’t seen more than tantalising glimpses of bare skin even of the White Wolf himself, whose body he usually  _ explores  _ every other night.

They’ve all been just so dreadfully  _ busy _ .

A year’s worth of storm damage has to be repaired before the first snows set in; trees have to be cut and brought in to make planks and struts, debris has to be cleared from the crumbling curtain walls and boulders broken apart for re-use as building material. It’s hard work, even for Witchers. And so, after the nightly rich supper, everyone has been falling straight into bed.

Jaskier is not exempt, of course. Vesemir has set him to care for Kaer Morhen’s livestock and gardens, collecting eggs, milking goats and bringing in the last, late harvest of beets and cauliflower.

So really, you must excuse the bard’s indiscretion. How can he resist temptation when the pale skin of his lover beckons in his peripheral? He means to take just a little peek before Geralt slides into the water. A  _ glimpse  _ of the magnificent body that has been hidden from his sight for much too long.

Oh, Jaskier looks. Means to turn his focus back towards his soaps. But at the vision greeting him, he freezes,  _ stares _ , and a bolt of arousal snaps down into his gut so strong he almost doubles over.

_ Sweet Melitele- _

The last time he saw Geralt in the nude, the Witcher had looked pretty much as he always does shortly before winter; wiry and as lean as his coin purse. Jaskier is used to Geralt seesawing between sickly emaciation and healthy-but-still-stick-thin, only putting on a bit of weight when Jaskier insists on bolstering his rations. The sight of scarred skin stretched thin over protruding ribs is a painfully familiar one.

But  _ now- _

Good gods,  _ Geralt has filled out.  _ Where you could once count the Witcher’s ribs, there is now nothing but a smooth expanse of skin, the plump, fatty tissue rolling and bunching generously when Geralt leans down to untie his boots. His normally trim waist has expanded too; gone are the strongly defined abs and the sharp cut of his hip bone, both replaced by full, supple mounds of flesh that threaten to spill over the hem of Geralt’s trousers with just another good meal or two.

Jaskier’s hands twitch reflexively with the need to touch, to  _ grab _ , to sink his fingers into the inviting softness of his lover’s body. The bar of soap jumps out of his grip and Jaskier yelps, splashing and scrambling to contain the slippery object.

The noise finally draws the Witcher’s attention. When Jaskier looks back up, three pairs of cat-like eyes are watching him with varying degrees of amusement.

Jaskier stifles a whimper of distress at the view afforded to him.

It’s not just Geralt with whom the weeks in Kaer Morhen have agreed, it seems.

Jaskier had obviously noted the wolves' ravenous hunger during mealtimes -it was hard not to. And he had remarked to himself with a bit of sadness that this might be the only time in the year where they could stuff themselves without worrying about making ends meet should the next contract not pay well or at all. It certainly explained the overflowing stores of the keep, kept full like Vesemir was looking to house a whole army instead of just a few Witchers and the White Wolf’s pet bard.

Right now, staring at the evidence of Geralt, Eskel and Lambert’s enjoyment, their powerful bodies thick with weeks worth of good food and hard work, Jaskier can feel no sadness at all.

No, the poor bard is downright  _ dizzy  _ with how fast his blood rushes south, prick stiffening in harsh, throbbing pulses that tear a breathless little moan from his throat. He knows Witchers can smell arousal, hopes that the mineral-rich water will somehow cover the spike of his pheromones. He can’t stop staring, is sure he’ll die if he takes his eyes off the tempting display of flesh.

There’s  _ so much _ to see.

The broad set of Lambert’s shoulders catches Jaskier’s attention first, then the swell of his chest, bulging obscenely because Lambert is still caught in the process of shucking off his shirt. A trail of fire-red hair leads Jaskier’s eyes lower over a beautifully rounded stomach and he momentarily curses the continued presence of Lambert’s pants but thankfully Eskel had started undressing bottoms-first.

It’s not that the tight leather these men favor usually does much to hide their bodies, mind you, but the unrestricted view of the scarred Witcher’s massive, tree-trunk-like thighs still hits Jaskier  _ hard _ .

_ He wants to be crushed between them _ .

Wants to get his lips and tongue on the prick nestled innocently in the thatch of hair at Eskel’s groin and die a thousand happy deaths with his mouth stuffed full to bursting. Jaskier’s cock jerks almost painfully at the mental image, then again as he imagines his whole body pressed between the huge men; how far he’d have to spread his legs to accommodate the width of their padded hips, how nice it would be to squeeze those glorious pecs between his fingers while three-hundred pounds of amorous Witcher fuck into him from behind, making his teeth rattle witch each heavy impact.

“Jaskier.” Geralt’s voice naps him back into the present.

The Witcher is naked. Full-on naked and there is just _ so much _ of him, saliva pools in Jaskier’s mouth at the sight.

“Uhm,” the bard blinks stupidly, blushing when he becomes aware of his thundering heartbeat, “I was just, uhm- you see, I didn’t-”

Lambert snorts at the stammering and lets his shirt finally drop to the ground, moving on to undo the laces of his trousers. Jaskier wants to bite the folds of his belly. “You see something you like, bard?”

“I, uh,” Jaskier swear he’s usually more eloquent than this. He shoots a glance towards Geralt, seeking confirmation that it’s okay to go ahead. Theirs has always been an open relationship but they don’t usually play with people they know.

His lover is no longer standing at the side of the stone pool though.

A small splash of water to Jaskier’s right is the only warning he gets before he’s pulled onto Geralt’s lap. He moans loud and unabashed when, indeed, his legs must spread much wider than usual to straddle his lover’s sinfully plush thighs.

Though they’re of equal height, Geralt’s bulk has always made Jaskier feel pleasantly small. The effect is compounded now as the bard sinks against him, his thin frame thoroughly dwarfed by the mass of his Witcher, and Jaskier’s hands fluttering indecisively for a second because he doesn’t even know where to start exploring this new, deliciously plump version of his lover. In the end, he settles on groping Geralt’s chest and marvelling at the give of the normally hard flesh.

Geralt’s pecs have always been a nice handful. They were bigger, in fact, than the breasts of some of the women Jaskier had been with but now,  _ oh sweet Melitele- _

“Y-yeah. Holy shit,  _ yes _ , I see so much that I like,” Jaskier says breathlessly, flicking at one of Geralt’s pebbled nipples. A low laugh, sounding like Eskel, reverberates through the cavern and Jaskier is drawn forward into a filthy, open-mouthed kiss.

He moans at the influx of sensation; Geralt’s hands are still cold from being outside for so long, raising goosebumps where they slide greedily over the skin of Jaskier’s back, but his mouth feels even hotter for it, sucking and biting at Jaskier’s throat when they have to come apart for air. The Witcher’s cock is rising rapidly to the occasion, poking at Jaskier’s hip.

Running deft hands over the lovely body presented to him, Jaskier crowds even closer, gripping Geralt’s upper arms and pressing his fingertips into the skin. The Witcher flexes his biceps playfully but even stretched over bulging, rock-hard muscle, there’s still plenty of give to the soft tissue and Jaskier pinches a little roll of it between his fingers in delight.

“Fuck, look at you,” he growls against Geralt’s lips, gripped by ravenous hunger, “You look so good like this, so fucking  _ thick _ ,”

He moves to Geralt’s ribcage, loving how difficult it is to make out the thin, curving bones through the new layer of fat and Jaskier’s hips rut forward senselessly, drawing twin groans out of Geralt and him as their cocks slide together deliciously, riding up against the folds of the Witcher’s belly.

Geralt takes a deep breath, revelling the scent of Jaskier’s arousal, and knocks their foreheads together gently.

“I was afraid you might not like it,” he confesses in a whisper, eyes closed. Jaskier tugs at his hair.

“Not like it? How could I not like this?” Jaskier tightens his legs against his Witcher’s hips, “You feel so soft underneath me, so fucking amazing. I’ll never need a pillow as long as I have those pretty tits of yours-” he squeezes them to make his point, grinning at Geralt’s excited groan. The man loves having his pecs played with. Gets hot for the filthy praise like nothing else and Jaskier indulges him gladly.

The bard settles into an easy rhythm, rocking against his lover as he spreads his hands wide to feel out the meat of Geralt’s abdomen. “You like it too, don’t you? Do you enjoy feeling all heavy and full when we go to bed? Bet it makes you so much stronger, finally getting all that energy you need for your big, fat muscles-”

“Yeah, I, fuck-”

The look of sweet rapture on Geralt’s face; cheeks flushed, pupils blown wide and mouth open in a soft, wet  _ o _ , is nearly enough to send Jaksier over the edge. He feels drunk, high on the sight and feel of his lover’s beautiful, healthy body, far away from the hardship of the Path.

Gods, Jaskier can’t wait to get fucked by this mountain of a man. Or do the fucking. Will Geralt keep gaining weight over the next weeks? When Jaskier thinks of making his lover’s bountiful flesh jiggle and jump with the movements of their vigorous lovemaking, he gets downright dizzy.

This will be the death of him.

“I wanna watch you tomorrow,” he murmurs against Geralt’s lips, “Wanna see that mighty body of yours put to  _ work _ ...”

“Why wait until tomorrow?”

“Ah-!” Jaskier yelps at the unfamiliar growl in his ear, turning to see Lambert grin down at him toothily.

Ensnared by his lover’s body, Jaskier had momentarily forgotten the presence of the other two Witchers in the room. Lambert is standing just a step behind them now, the still-respectful distance plus the subtle flaring of his nostrils telling Jaskier that he is watching carefully for any hint of discomfort, waiting for permission to join their play.

He’s a bit of a rowdy pup (and a real prick at times), Jaskier has already learned, but Geralt remains relaxed, even spreading his legs to welcome the other wolf, so Jaskier grins as well and eagerly beckons Lambert closer.

At once the bard is happily squashed between the two unnaturally hot bodies, cushioned between bulging chests and soft stomachs and there’s another massive cock pushing up into the small of his back, answering his long-standing question of if it’s only Geralt that is so very blessed in his nether regions or if it is another mutagen effect.

“Fuck!” Jaskier can’t help but moan hotly as one of his hands finds purchase on the meat of Lambert’s thigh, grabbing a handful of the luxurious padding and squeezing as he feels the muscles jump underneath.

Lambert is returning the attention in kind, calloused hands exploring whatever parts of Jaskier’s body he can reach. The bard lets his head drop back against Lambert’s torso and  _ enjoys  _ the feast for his senses, his heaving chest and undulating hips creating heavenly, wet friction against the plush bodies of his partners.

Jaskier has always liked being covered by Geralt, liked to feel the strength and size and weight of his lover pressing him down and caging him in but now it’s so much  _ better _ . His mind snags on the lively pink flush on Geralt’s face, the unburdened happiness dancing in his eyes and how warm and  _ luxurious  _ his body must feel, having put on such a healthy weight, and the thought drives Jaskier lean over the edge.

He comes with a choked off cry, untouched save for the friction between their bodies, shuddering and shaking as the churning water washes away milky spurts of seed. There’s barely enough space for him to ride out his orgasm and no space at all to lessen the hot pressure on his cock when it becomes too much, making Jaskier keen and writhe mindlessly in overwrought pleasure. 

_ Holy fucking shit- _

It takes a moment before he can tell up from down again. And even longer for the aftershocks to recede enough to focus on anything but the thunderous beating of his own heart. Jaskier laughs a bit, shocked at the unexpected intensity of the experience and is glad when Geralt’s hands come up to his ribcage, stroking soothingly over his belly and sides, gentling him from the high.

With a nudge from Geralt, Lambert steps back a little; far enough to give Jaskier space to catch his breath, close enough so he can still rest comfortably against the younger Witcher. When Lambert speaks, Jaskier feels the vibration in his back.

“Well. I’ve known people to prefer some meat on their lover’s bones but  _ damn, bard _ . You really got it bad, huh?” He sounds somewhat bemused but definitely excited at the prospect, a sentiment mirrored by Geralt if Jaskier interprets his little “Hm.” and the shine of his eyes correctly. The prick still nudging against his hips is also sort of a dead giveaway.

Jaskier laughs, delighted.

“Yeah, apparently I really do,” he says, looking to the side and finding Eskel there, seated an overly respectful distance away from their little huddle. The scarred Witcher blushes when Jaskier beckons him over, giving Jaskier a hard time to decide if he should swoon over the man’s evident shyness or over his wonderful body, moving effortlessly through the waist-high water. If Jaskier wasn’t saddled with the limitations of human physiology, he’d surely get hard again either way.

“You will have to try and desensitize me to it,” he says with false pleading, turning exaggerated doe-eyes on Geralt, “Or I fear I shall be absolutely  _ insatiable  _ all winter!”

The Witchers snort and chuckle. Geralt grins, wide and gleaming in the low light.

“Don’t worry little lark, we will match your hunger.”


End file.
